


Family Ties

by thewhistleisyourgod



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Eventual Romance, F/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, POV Female Character, Period-Typical Sexism, character types from godfathers, dialogue heavy cuz im a slut for dialogue, endearing and antagonizing nicknames are important, eventual mob boss bucky barnes, filial devotion is no more, i take alot of these relationships from experience, not too much tho, war is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-16 10:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29699499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhistleisyourgod/pseuds/thewhistleisyourgod
Summary: James "Bucky" Barnes was twenty years old in September of 1951, when he was drafted into the Korean War. He wouldn't return for two years.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers





	1. Chapter 1

When Andrea Vassalini was eighteen years old, she had a secret that would potentially ruin her entire life if it ever escaped the lips of herself or Bucky Barnes. The summer of 1951, he promised he would keep it a secret, and he left. He was twenty years old when he was sent to Korea. He wouldn’t return for two years.  
Andrea Vassalini assumed she would never catch a break. Born into the wrong family at the wrong time, she felt like she was forced into a life that never seemed to suit her. Despite the olive skin, bright eyes and thick accent reminiscent of her own mother, she figured that every member of the mafia would say, “You’re Donnie’s daughter?” when she was introduced.  
Donnie Vassalini had three children. Donnie Jr, or Just Junior, abbreviated to JJ by close members. He was the oldest and the cruelest, best with a knife and terrible in the sack, according to every girl he came across. Next was Michael, shy and soft-spoken, but equally as insane as everyone else in Andrea’s life. And last, and least, was Andrea. The mistake, she was only two years younger than Michael, and for the first thirteen years of her life, followed him around like his shadow. That is, until he met Bucky, and left her behind.  
Andrea’s ma, cold and detached Rosalina, cried for two days when Michael got called up for Korea. He left on a cold November afternoon, stone-faced as he waved goodbye to his life from the train car.  
“Andy?” The endearing nickname which had been given by JJ when she was twelve. When it came off of Bucky’s tongue it seemed a little better than from the taunting voices of her family. That same cold November morning had been Andrea’s eighteenth birthday. Riding in the backseat, Andrea barely acknowledged Bucky as he pulled on her skirt from the passenger seat. JJ blanched, but didn’t speak.  
“Happy birthday.” Bucky whispered, turning to give her his signature sympathetic smile, his fingers were still toying with her skirt, but pulled away when JJ swerved into the next lane, almost missing their exit.  
“Fuck, its November tenth already? How old are you this time?” Andrea scoffed, arms crossing over her front, trying to hide the sincere pain that ached at her.  
“Eighteen.” Bucky says. It’s still early enough that a fog settles over the river, sun still low over the gloomy clouds. The turnpike was crowded and loud. She was missing a full day of school to sulk in the house with her parents who didn’t even know it was her birthday. It could be better, you could be one of those goomars who trail after married men like sick puppies. You want that for the future, Andy? That’s what her mother would’ve said, if she had bothered to take the same car.  
The house was a lot quieter than usual. Men weren’t milling around, smoking their cigars and bellowing in the living room. There were no wives chattering loudly in the kitchen, fussing over Andrea’s looks, which to the women, she could only accredit to baby Jesus for giving them to her. Worst of all, there was no Michael, reading in secluded corners, smoking with Bucky, chuckling amongst themselves. There was just Bucky, standing uncomfortably against a wall in the dining room, fingers fleeting across the wallpaper. He had always been a nervous toucher, touching books, walls, grass. Once, he unraveled an entire sweater when a laundry pile was left in his general vicinity. She knew that her house scared him, and she knew that Bucky was not meant for the mob. Only twenty, he was unfortunate enough to make the acquaintance of Michael at thirteen, and from then on, he was a regular part of the family.  
When Andrea turned seventeen, she began to see Bucky in a different light. He had gone to trade school, and worked at an auto-parts shop near her school. Everyday she would pass in her own car, giving her and her friends a chance to gawk at him, sweating, his muscles glistening as he worked. She knew that he saw her too, she was much more than the best friend's sister. Andrea refrained from pursuing anything as they grew closer, having their own personal jokes, and taking a seat near each other at the dinner table. Being eighteen changed everything, in more ways than one.  
The dining room was empty when she found him, standing against the table as if waiting for the imaginary dinner to end. He saw her coming, smiling that tight-jawed smile he had when Andrea’s father entered a room.  
“Your ma says lunch is almost ready.”  
“Good for her.” Andrea greeted, leaning against the wall next to him, facing him. She admired his face, not missing the stress lines on his forehead, or the rock in his throat. His hair was perfectly combed back, framing his symmetrical face easily. His blue eyes downcast, he didn’t look at her.  
“I’m thinking of joining.”  
“Joining what? The army? That’s stupid.”  
“Don’t do that, Andrea. You know what I’m thinking of joining.” He never uses her full name, it’s reserved for her mother and the occasional jab from JJ. She didn’t think it ever passed from his lips before. He looks at her then, jaw set, eyes lost. Andrea was dumbstruck, lips parted, cheeks heating from the closeness.  
“That’s the worst fucking idea I’ve ever heard, Buck.” She whispered, looking up at him with a stoic look, avoiding his lidded eyes and tight lips.  
“I’m basically a third son. JJ thinks I’d fit right in.” He’s whispering now, the word so close to Andrea’s lips she’d almost forgotten what she was mad about.  
“That’s not funny.”  
“Who said it was funny?”  
“Is this because of Korea?”  
Bucky brings his fingers to your skirt, rubbing a bit of fabric between his index finger and his thumb. He didn’t answer the question.  
“You don’t have the guts.” Andrea leaves the room.  
Nobody really had the guts for this life. You were born into it, forced to hold the heavy gun between your hands and shoot, or forced to hide it after. Andrea hadn’t heard of anybody joining that didn’t have some kind of relation in decades. Bucky wasn’t even Italian- he would never be a made man. She wanted to tell him this, hold him by his jacket and shake him until he saw how fucking stupid he was being. She wanted him to whisk her away into safety and never speak of the mafia ever again. That moment never came.  
They had a quiet dinner. Andrea shuffled downstairs late, already hearing the clanking of plates and small talk. She had slept through lunch and was not ready to face her family. JJ’s wife, Lena, had come over with the baby, and had fortunately captured the attention of Andrea’s mother. However, her father and Bucky both noticed when she finally pushed her chair in, next to Michael’s empty spot.  
“You’re late. How are you ever gonna get a job with a sleep schedule like that?” Her father says between bites of pasta. Andrea doesn’t respond, just piles a small heaping of food onto her plate, eyes still crusted with sleep. His threat was empty, he knew she would be married off before she ever had to work a day in her life. The table remained quiet, filled with the whispers of JJ and her father, and the small talk of Lena and her mother, fussing over the baby. Across the table, Bucky’s eyes burned holes through her.  
“Sweetheart, what day is it?” Her father says loudly, suddenly. The whole room stiffens. Her mother barely registers his words, still bouncing the baby on her knee. Andrea is sweetheart.  
“November tenth, daddy.” Andrea says quietly. He drops his fork, which clatters on his plate. Your mother doesn’t notice, and laughs loudly over a coo from the baby.  
“Rosalina, hey Rosie, you forget your third fucking kid?” Her father says, snapping his fingers, finally getting the attention of her mother, who seems astounded by the absurdity of his yelling.  
“It’s been a long day, Donnie!”  
“Can I be excused?” 

Andrea’s father, JJ and Bucky took coffee in the living room. She sat dejectedly in the kitchen, absentmindedly rocking the baby on her knee, barely registering the conversation between Lena and her mother as they washed dishes.  
“Happy birthday, baby.” Lena says, drying her hands on a towel, nudging a small package towards Andrea, giving her a small smirk. Handing off the baby, Andrea ripped open the present, revealing the gold watch she’d been asking for. She smiled brightly at Lena, who looked as pleased as Andrea felt. Of course Lena, who had taken a liking to Andrea from the moment she met her, would remember her birthday. She had little to focus on, her husband awful, her baby colicky. To many women whose lives were intertwined with the mafia, they only had each other. Lena had Andrea.  
“How’d you know?”  
“JJ’s got keen ears, you know.” 

“I’m gonna be a made man, Andy.” Bucky stood in the doorway of Andrea’s room. It was almost nine-thirty, Andrea just about ready to put on pajamas, reading a book.  
“That’s not possible, you have to be Italian to be a made man.” Bucky slowly enters the room, taking note of things he already knew about- he’d been in her room millions of times before. Andrea was curled up into herself at the head of her bed, and Bucky sat at the foot, causing a significant dip in the mattress.  
“My dad finds out you're up here and you’ll be a dead man.” Bucky laughs, and rustles through his pockets. He pulls out a small package, and hands it to her.  
“This is the last you’ll be seeing of me for a long while. Got business in the city.” Andrea raises her eyebrows at him as she opens the packages. Inside, is a dainty golden chain, paired with a small butterfly charm.  
“You know, I always said you were going to grow out of that nickname, Andy. And baby. God, your family sure does love that nickname, which is ironic, because for the most part, they barely notice you’re there enough to call you it. Butterfly fits you more, I think.” Andrea has a strange, dazed look on her face as she watches Bucky carefully. He stands, and leans over to kiss her forehead. Then he’s gone. 

Andrea’s graduation party was loud, hot, and nauseating. The patio, exposed to the sun and the blaring heat, was full of men with cigarettes hanging from the crook of their mouths. Their wives, dressed in puffy dresses and large hats, as if it was a wedding, fawning over babies, giving Andrea the occasional croon for her beauty. Aunts and uncles pressed checks into her open palm, fingers twisting around her hair, laughter ringing in her head.  
A big banner waved in the stiff breeze over head, praising her for her momentous achievement- even if Michael had also graduated valedictorian, they seemed to be happy for her all the same. Sat at the large, long table in the garden, she sits back in her chair, trying not to frown. Her sun hat was drooping down above her head, the aunts circled her, toying with her hands, admiring her new dress. They spoke in tight, pitchy voices, some with Italian accents, trapezing between the two languages, some who married in, acting as if it brought them shame to not know the language. Andrea’s aunt, her fathers youngest sister, sat beside her, talking animatedly in Italian, in a way that didn’t always warrant a response. JJ was the one who spoke Italian, not Andrea, or Michael. Despite the long warm summers in Sicily since she was seventeen, she could only ever say, “How are you?” “Thank you.” and “Please pass the bread.”  
Her aunt switched to English when she realized Andrea wasn’t listening. Her head tilted, her eyes were lost to the fountain lapping lazily on the stone near the veranda outside the blazing heat of the patio.  
“Is the cute one coming with you this summer?” Andrea looked to her aunt, who was pointing directly at Bucky, who had just stumbled through the back gate, greeting her father with a tight-lipped smile and a courageous pat on the back. The cousins, seated across the table, giggled when her face heated up beyond the usual heat from the sun. Bucky looked different, the last time you had fully seen him being in November, except in passing. He had been fitted into the tight suits that all the men wore, eyes less bright and more rigid. He was one of them now, no longer just the innocent boy next door.  
“I don’t know, Zia.” Her aunt huffed, and turned to an unsuspecting wife. Andrea, tired of staying in one spot, got up from her seat, turning to embrace the waves of relatives. Accosted immediately, a familiar, soft hand grabbed her upper arm, and she turned to face Peggy, a distant cousin on her mother’s side. Upon Rosalina marrying into the Vassalini there was some semblance of peace as some of her family members mingled with Andrea’s fathers. Peggy was born from one of those mingling's, and remained one of Andrea’s favorite cousins, as Peggy used to babysit her as a young child. One of the few brave enough to pursue a career after college, Peggy was almost twenty-six and unmarried. Andrea's mother chalked it up to ugliness, but everybody knew that wasn’t the case. Peggy was beautiful, and it showed when she stood proudly next to a tall man. Blonde, piercing blue eyes, dressed in the uniform that Michael had left in over eight months ago.  
“Andy, I want you to meet my fiancée- this is Steve.” Steve smiled brightly and held his hand out to shake. Andrea just smiled back, eyebrows lifting as Peggy quickly pulled his hand back.  
“Nice to meet you, Steve.” Andrea left with another wriggle of her eyebrows. She was trying to fight her way to Bucky, who was smoking a cigarette with JJ, leaning against the fence near the back. She knew he saw her, jaw set as she continually got pulled back by excited fiancées and clingy cousins.  
“Oi, baby!” JJ was motioning over as she flitted herself out of the mass of people. He held up a cigarette, which she happily accepted, standing on his opposite side, not looking at Bucky. The time to smoke a cigarette dissipated as her father made his way over, plucking it from her happy fingers.  
“Are you packed for Sicily, sweetheart?” Resigned to disappointment, Andrea nodded, leaning back against the fence. He nodded, almost to himself, and lit the cigarette for himself. Andrea, watched, frowning, as he smoked quietly. Despite being the boss, her father enjoyed a few moments of peace that were far from attainable in his life. It didn’t help that all three of his children hated the spotlight, taking his scowls and need for solace. Andrea did hate being the center of the attention, but Donnie was always glad that at least she was always charming, humble.  
“I do have a surprise. We had to boot the new recruit from the trip. Bucky’s going to go instead.” Her father was pulled back into business, leaving you, open-mouthed in his wake. She looked expectantly at Bucky, who had made himself smaller than before, grimacing at her.  
“Was this your doing?”  
“No. What, you don’t like me anymore?”  
“I’m just surprised. Usually he sends someone who knows a lick of Italian.”  
“Good recruits are hard to come by these days.” Andrea huffed, taking off her sunhat, baby hairs flying over her face. She scrunched her face, unaccustomed to the sun as it beat down on her eyes.  
“You’ll like Sicily.” Andrea says, a manicured hand coming to hide her eyes from the beating sun. Bucky chuckles, feet dragging as he stumbles closer to Andrea, hands reaching out almost expectantly, but he pulls back. Andrea graduating changes more than her birthday did. Rules change when the boss' daughter truly comes of age. If you were stupid enough to pursue it, you were stupid enough to die. At least, that's what Donnie always said. She can almost see Bucky in Sicily now, hair loose from the lack of gel, hanging over his blue eyes as he gives her a lazy smile. He’s wearing wide cut slacks, and his button-up shirt isn’t buttoned to his chest. It’s how she’s always wanted him, care-free, rolling in the hills of Sicily. She looks away, his eyes almost too much to handle. She looks over at the table, where people are beginning to sit as dinner is being served. Rosalina is approaching with an open arm and an empty plate.  
“Come, baby, before the food is all gone! You too, Buck!” As they walk up to the line of people waiting for food, Andrea swears she can feel a cool hand touch her bare arm, and then it’s gone. 

French music plays slowly over a small radio in the hot kitchen. The back door, which is still swung open, the twinkling lights of the patio exposes the few men left, smoking cigars, talking lowly. Bucky is out there, she can see him if she tilts her head to the left, seated on the opposite side of her father. Brave, she thinks.  
“You like him, no?” Her mother, who sits opposite of the small table says, blowing out smoke from her cigarette. Lena, who is shuffling cards, stifles a small laugh. Andrea, surprised, turns to her mother, giving her a look so reminiscent of her father that Rosalina laughs too.  
“You can have Bucky, if you want. I can talk to daddy for you.” Rosalina says, in which Lena truly laughs, as Andrea gasps, dropping her soda on the table angrily. She’s about to walk away when Bucky comes into the kitchen. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, his hair tainted by the sun. He's shed his sport jacket, his tie loosened and shirt ruffled. Rosalina prays in Italian, and Lena laughs again, earning a kick under the table from Andrea. He approaches the table, giving the three women a weird look, and touches the neck of Andrea’s drink. His fingers are littered with small cuts, and two rings.  
“Where can I get one of these, Andy?” Andrea avoids his gaze, as the French music gets louder with a crescendo. With a flutter, Lena produces a soda from the basket next to her feet, offering it to Bucky. A cool breeze touches his hair lightly, and Andrea has to fight to look away from him, red faced and tired.  
“Thank you.” He smiles at her, eyes trailing back to Andrea again, and walks back outside.  
“I don’t want him.” Rosalina huffs at Andrea's words, looking at the cards she’s been dealt, her face falters, and she sets the stack down again.  
“Go to Sicily. When you come back, you can decide. We will keep it very quiet. Lena?” Lena nods in agreement.  
Andrea shakes her head in disbelief. “Deal me in.”


	2. Chapter 2

Andrea’s aunt married Alfonso Bucci in 1934. After having fled the war, they moved back to Sicily, into the house that Andrea’s father had built, in 1949. Michael and Andrea visited them in the summers, spending their days on the water in the boat, lazing around, free from their busybody life in America. Now, it was just Andrea.   
“Michael talked about this place almost daily. His face would get so lost you’d think he was back here.” Bucky says, taking off his hat as they stepped out of the car. The house was magnificent, a long winding driveway, covered in lush green grass and gaping trees. The swing that Michael had built last summer waved dazedly in the breeze. Overall, Andrea was happy to be back in breezy summer dresses, white and flowered, that gave her room to breathe. Her aunt, Angeline, who had traveled back with them after attending the graduation, hurried her step towards the house. Andrea, hot and tired, stumbled along with Bucky, taking in the cool breeze as it swept past her shoulders.   
The house was large. The front was white, with curved windows and exposed brick. There was a swinging bench on the front porch. Inside, was comfier, full of expensive taste and dark wood. Andrea loved it, especially at night when the floor would cool from the open windows, and each step with bare feet was a cool breeze shooting upwards.   
At the front door, Alfonso and Angeline embraced, their noses touching, Andrea smiled faintly, and looked over at Bucky, who was still letting the air embrace him like an open hug. Alfonso, smile wide and happy, bound down the steps, picking up Andrea with a huff of laughter, saying something unintelligible in Italian.   
Following Alfonso, Bucky and Andrea are led into the house, which embraces Andrea like a warm hug. Littered with paintings, the green walls are cluttered with bright, ornamental paintings. It's impeccably clean, the floors gleaming in the sun, stain-glass from the front window dazzling off the staircase. In the kitchen, Andrea can hear Angeline fussing over a pitcher of lemonade.   
“Who painted this?” Bucky is standing in front of a large painting next to a mirror in the front hall. Andrea has retreated to the kitchen, leaving just Alfonso and Bucky. It’s a painting of a girl, strikingly familiar to him. She's smiling, hair breezy, in a white dress that compliments her wide, blue eyes. She’s sitting in a green field, full of dandelions and overlooks rolling hills. The bright blue sky gives her a look of an angel. It’s Andrea.   
“I did. I am an artist,” Alfonso says, leaving the luggage by the steps, “One just like this in her father’s office. Another in a museum. They love it.”   
If Bucky looked at it long enough, she looked like she was smiling. Head tilted, smile wide, her eyes were closed. This is where he’s seen it before, from her father’s office. It hangs above the alcove in the corner, where JJ sits during meetings. Here, in Sicily, the painting is lighter, more angelic and free. Andrea comes from the kitchen, and he hasn’t even realized that Alfonso is gone.   
“It’s a striking resemblance.” Bucky says, turning to her, a dazed smile on her face as she approaches him, too close. He can almost smell her perfume, he’s so close he could just reach out and-   
“Is there food?”   
It’s obvious, from Bucky’s point of view, that she loves her aunt and uncle very much. Her name rolls off their tongues in an unfamiliar accent, A nickname of its own. There is no condescending Baby here. They speak loudly and happily, enjoying their lunch on the back deck, over a glass table that makes Andrea look like she’s glistening. Sooner than Bucky thought, the couple excuses themselves from the porch, in favor of a nap. Bucky knew he would’ve liked one for himself, but he wasn’t here to sleep.   
“How about a look around the grounds?” Andrea says, feeling herself fall asleep in the chair. She sits up, straightening out her dress, and stands.   
“Lead the way.”   
Andrea, barefoot and hair loosened in it’s style, slowly led Bucky around the grounds, full of prized flowers, sweet-smelling and bright. Like Andrea’s house in Jersey, there is a veranda, inside a large fountain, atop of it a stone Greek goddess, poised as coiling into herself, a look of peace of her stoned features. Andrea stops here, sitting on a cold bench under a low hanging tree, the petals floating around her. With her feet up on the side of the fountain, Bucky wishes he could paint.   
“What were you doing in the city?” Andrea asks, keeping a steady eye on him as he sits down on the side of the fountain across from her. They can hear from the house, somebody has put a record on, and Italian music is floating over towards the veranda. Bucky leans over, his hand meeting the cold stone of the fountain next to her foot.   
“I told you. Working.” Andrea leans forward, into the sun, scrunching her eyes in suspicion. Bucky jolts when she rests a hand on his leg, her fingers grasping around his thigh, steadying herself.   
“Working where?” Whatever she’s doing, it’s working. Bucky's chest is moving manually, and sweat glistens on his forehead. Her hand leaves his thigh, and she leans back. Pushing her leg, it touches his bare arm.   
“That’s top secret, Andy.” Andrea lifts her eyebrows, and sighs. Standing, Bucky almost doubles over when her leg leaves his touch.   
“It’s gonna be a long summer then.” 

Andrea may be guilty of trying to actively seek out Bucky. Although, it’s not like he’s just some guy, It’s Bucky, and she wants him. She knows he’s seen things this year, and he’s not about to give up where he’s been. JJ had told her some, stationed at Donnie’s office in the city, but that’s all. There’s many nights in June where they spend hours on the patio, seated on the porch swing, just barely touching, in silence. Worst of all, to Andrea, is that Alfonso has taken a liking to Bucky, which means he spends less time staring at her and more time in Alfonso’s study with him. It’s selfish, she knows, but she wants more than just longing stares across the dinner table and sunny afternoons down by the lake. Letters from family come infrequently, and the sun wages it’s war on the land as July comes.   
“I’m teaching James how to paint.” Alfonso says one morning over breakfast. Bucky catches Andrea’s small smile, and his thigh leans over to rest against hers. She’s already wearing her sunhat, the sun high.   
“Andrea, why don’t you take James swimming today? At the beach? It is too hot to laze around in the sun.” Alfonso suggests, not looking up from his newspaper. Bucky audibly swallows, yet his thigh never leaves it’s place near Andrea.   
The beach is only two kilometers from the house, and a short distance on the bikes. It’s private and calm, and had always been a favorite of Andrea’s. She lets her bike roll as she jumps off, already shedding her clothes and stumbling towards the smooth water, the sand hot on her feet as she stomps downwards.   
“Well, at least wait for me!” Bucky yells, watching her step into the water and disappear. He hops on one foot, trying to shake loose his shoe, then his pants, and shirt. Andrea’s head appears from the water, she’s smiling, her face bare from makeup and her hair wet on her shoulders. Bucky wishes she could always look at him like that as he padded into the water- happy, infatuated. All they knew and had was the present. How are you supposed to plan for an entire future when you’re just so young?   
These words rang out in Andrea’s head as she watched him plunge into the water, emerging seconds later, his own hair wet, a smile accompanying his sun-glazed face. She wished she had a camera, to remember that moment forever.   
“What are you thinking?” Bucky says, moving his arms to stay afloat, looking at her like he always has: mischievous, happy.   
“They don’t have to know, you know.” Andrea says, kicking her legs until she's closer to him. The waves ebb and flow, moving them back and forth. Underneath the water, a hand reaches out and holds onto Andrea’s waist.   
“You mean, what happens in Sicily stays in Sicily?” Bucky says, leaning into the touch of Andrea’s hand touching his cheek. A leg touches his back. She’s so close, her honey-dew scent mixing in the salty air.   
“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.” She mumbles, and then, they’re kissing.   
Bucky couldn’t almost explode at the sincerity- her legs are wrapped around his waist, her hands are touching his cheeks, pulling his hair, edging him closer and closer. No longer are the days with playful flirting and the ebbing reminders in his head that she’s your best friends sister. She’s Andrea now, fully grown, beautifully funny, smart as a tack, Andrea. And that’s how their summer affair begins. With one kiss, and the promise that nobody will ever know.   
That same night, the moon pooling on Andrea’s bed, a soft thump was heard on the door. She’d been up, of course, waiting for the moment when he gave in, and he had. Bucky stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, his hair fluffy and disorderly.   
“Just couldn’t stay away, could you?” Andrea whispers, smiling at him through tired eyes, letting him step forward as she stepped backwards until her legs hit the bed.   
“You know, our little escapade could get me in a lot of trouble.” Bucky whispers, shutting the door quietly. Andrea sits down on the bed, reaching out to grasp his face, just as his hands meet her waist.   
“What, are you scared, Buck?” Andrea breathes out after a long kiss. She’s fully underneath him now, his hands cradling her head like he’s afraid she may fall through the bed and off a mountain.   
“No, never.” 

August snuck up on them. Out of the shadows of a distracted July, there was August, rearing its ugly at them. They had only a week left in Sicily.   
The balcony off of Andrea’s room looks over the west side of the grounds, where the veranda is. She spent a lot of time out here, thinking, reading, sleeping. Bucky notices that she’s beginning to transition back into the tight, puffy dresses she wears in America, long gone are the days of long, slated skirts and fluffed white V-necks. When he finds her on the balcony one morning, she’s still in the chair, wearing a white dress that looks suffocating. Her hair pulled back in a tight pony-tail, she’s staring out at the mountains, eyes dazed.   
“Honey.” Bucky says quietly, watching her turn expectantly to him, a light smile fading when she notices the letter clutched in his hand.   
“Who died?”   
“Nobody died, Jesus, Andy, that’s awful.”   
She stood, and snatched the letters from his hands, taking it over to the corner to read it, Bucky stood behind her, forehead resting against her head, her ponytail tickling him.   
“There has to be something my dad can do.”   
“If there was, don’t you think he would’ve done it with Mikey?” Andrea turns in his arms, a horrified look on her face. Bucky detested war.   
Breakfast was quiet. Alfonso, as always mumbled over his newspaper, drinking coffee, not noticing Andrea’s almost audible frown.   
“Any news from home, James?”   
“Actually, I’ve been drafted.”   
“Huh. When?”   
“September.”   
Andrea stomps away from the table, Bucky makes to go after her, but Alfonso motions for him to stop short.   
“She’ll get over it in time.”   
The door opens abruptly, and Angeline comes out onto the patio with a puzzled look on her face. She was clutching a piece of paper close, and was looking around.   
“What is it?” Bucky says, noticing Alfonso putting his newspaper down.   
“Where’s Andrea?”   
Bucky knows she’s in the veranda, probably sulking on the bench, staring angrily at the fountain.   
“She’s probably in the veranda. Why?”   
Angeline doesn’t answer, just rushes away, leaving the piece of paper in Alfonso’s hands. Bucky waits for him to read it, watching his face fall.   
“Oh, son.”   
Andrea is crying when she returns from the veranda, wrenching open the door and rushing inside. Angeline follows, looking helpless, as she looks at Alfonso.   
“Did you tell him?”   
“Tell me what?” 

When Bucky comes to Andrea’s door that night, she doesn’t answer. She’s sitting on the cool tile of the balcony, staring at the stars, cigarette in hand. She’s still wearing the white dress from earlier, but she’s abandoned a few layers of puff. Her hair is down, falling over her shoulders sadly. The door to the balcony opens, and she doesn’t even move. Her legs are outstretched in front of her, and when Bucky sits, he lets his hand rest on them, caressing them softly.   
“If we get married, you don’t have to go.”   
“If I stay, I’d be just as likely to die.” Andrea’s lip trembles for a moment, and then she takes another drag from her cigarette.   
“My family is never going to recover from this.”   
“Maybe for your parents. But you’ll recover.”   
“My brother is dead, Bucky.”   
“If I come back-”   
“When. When you come back.”   
“Right. When I come back, if you’re still single, we can get married. I can’t get out of going. And I don’t want you to be waiting for me everyday with bated breath, instead of living your life.” Andrea gives him a faint, pained smile. She stubs her cigarette out on the tile, and crawls over to him, her hands reaching to caress his face.   
“You can say that, but no matter what, I’m always going to be waiting for you.” His hands reach her waist, slowly moving to her back, pulling her close. Their lips are close, their noses touching. Andrea closes her eyes.   
“You could have anybody in the world. Why me?” He whispers, his lips finding her cheek. She leans away, eyes searching his face softly. Her leg meets the other side of his waist, and she sits down on top of him.   
“Because, if you haven’t noticed, I’m very stubborn,” Bucky chuckles, “and you’re the one I want.”   
Bucky suddenly remembers, and fishes through his pocket to pull out a small folded piece of paper. He hands it to Andrea, who leans back on his thighs, and opens it. It’s a small drawing of her, looking over the balcony, smiling in her summer dress, hair reaching down her back.   
“You’re a fast learner.” 

If Bucky could have his way, he would never want Andrea to wear black. Although she looked beautiful in anything, her facial expressions were misery to him. They rode in separate cars from the airport to the house. When Bucky arrives, Andrea is already in the living room, being clutched to her father tightly. Only two weeks after the funeral, Bucky is walking onto the train, wearing a uniform, watching Andrea from the window, who is still dressed in black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is just set up to the main plot ;D  
> also the Painting is so comforting to me lol its also a large plot device


	3. Chapter 3

Barnard was a welcome respite from the heartbreak that came with living at home. Every corner Andrea turned was another reminder that no matter how badly she missed Bucky, her brother was dead. Bucky could come back, but Michael? He was dead. “Vassa...lini? That sounds familiar.” Andrea’s roommate says as they shake hands. She’s blonde, wearing a bright shade of pink lipstick. If she doesn’t become too annoying, Andrea thinks they may get along just fine.

“No, no it doesn’t.” Andrea replies, and lets go of her hand, turning back to her unpacking, leaving her roommate there with a confused look on her face and her hand still out. Turns out, she was good fun. Her brother snuck them alcohol on the weekends, and she had good conversation in between class.

“How come he isn’t in Korea?” Andrea inquires one Friday in January. She figured that it had been long enough, and her roommate, Lacy, might find it fun to divulge some personal information. They sat on Andrea’s bed, wearing just underwear and large sweaters, sipping from plastic cups. Lacy was flipping through a magazine, and turned to Andrea.

“I dunno, he hasn’t been called up. What about you? You got brothers?” Andrea blanched, taking another long drink. She had figured that at some point when they were drunk she probably told her.

“Yeah. Two. Well…” Andrea set down her cup on the nightstand, and sat up, “The one who got drafted died. In Korea, I mean.” Lacy’s eyes widened, sitting up herself, a warm hand finding Andrea’s shoulder. They sit in silence for a while, Lacy almost asking Andrea to cry for her brother, but she doesn’t only shake off the hand, and gets up.

“Come on, get dressed. Let’s go get distracted.”

Andrea went to Florida with Lacy for spring break. They stayed at a large hotel at the heart of Miami, sipping drinks they were too young to have, flirting with boys they didn’t want. A large stack of cash given to Andrea from her father stayed in her suitcase the entire time. She didn’t want it, especially if she had any inclination that it was blood money.

“I have a question. And you definitely do not have to answer if you don’t want to.” Lacy says, head hanging over her full bed in the hotel. She’s looking at Andrea upside down in the mirror, where she’s taking off her makeup. The tight-fitting dress was almost like a strait-jacket, and she wanted nothing more than to wear a summer dress tomorrow.

“Shoot.”

“Who are you? Who are you….really?” Andrea turns around in her chair, looking at Lacy with cold cream hanging off her cheeks. Lacy, always the laughing one, is now serious, sitting up, her mascara smudged under her eyes, blonde curls falling down over her forehead.

“In which way do you mean?”

“I mean, are you or are you not related to…” Lacy’s voice dimmed to a whisper, “The mafia?” Andrea scoffs, and turns back to the mirror before Lacy can see her unsure facial expression. She’s wiping cold cream harshly off her face as Lacy stands up, drunk.

“You can’t prove anything.” Lacy is opening her suitcase, and holding up the wad of cash. She’s standing on unsure feet, almost sad to have asked in the first place.

“Ok well, that’s pretty good evidence.” Lacy drops the wad of cash, and comes to kneel where Andrea is sitting, her cold hands finding Andrea’s arms, forcing Andrea to look at her.

“I don’t like you any less. The reason I uh, actually wanted to ask is because…”

“Because?” Lacy pushes back on her heels and stands. Dejectedly, she stumbles over to her bed and sits back, a frown on her face. It’s the most emotion Andrea has ever seen from her.

“My brother is in trouble. Money trouble.” Andrea forces back a laugh. Shaking her head, she wipes off the excess cold cream, and begins untangling her hair. The room is silent, other than Andrea’s bobby pins clattering on the vanity.

“I can’t help you. You’re gonna have to go elsewhere. Somewhere they won’t feel bad for having to bury him if he doesn’t pay them back.” Then, Lacy vomits.

To Andrea's surprise, Lacy does take her advice on one thing, and by the time she does come back from staying at Peggy’s for the last week of spring break, all of Lacy’s things are gone.

“Jesus, Andy, you already drove one out?” JJ says from behind Andrea, sneering at the state of the half-empty room. Andrea gives him a twisted look.

“You asked to come up here, I told you she was probably gone.” He lingers in the doorway as she sets a suitcase on the bed and opens it. Finally, he walks in, and picks up a picture of Andrea and Lacy from Christmas.

“Hey, this is her?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I know her. She came to plead the fifth for her brother once. Asked if I had a sister. It was weird.” Andrea drops the top back into her suitcase, smiling out of spite.

“That bitch.”

JJ is still lingering. By now, he’s usually gone, down the hall to flirt with some girls. He’s hunched over, awkward, as if he’s going to spring something on her. Desperately, Andrea prays he doesn’t ask her to entertain his mistress again.

“You hear from Bucky lately?” The suitcase snaps shut, and Andrea drops it to the floor. It rolls under the high rise bed. Andrea sets her jaw at the question, watching her brother eye the butterfly necklace on her desk as she folds laundry.

“No.”

“Oh, okay then. It’s just, Pa’s been hoping you have.”

“I don’t think they have phones in Korea. You can always try pen and paper.” God knows Andrea has. There has always been no reply. She’d given up trying in March. What happens in Sicily stays in Sicily, and Korea is always there to decimate every scent of it.

“I’m leaving.” Andrea doesn’t watch him go.

Slowly, but surely, Andrea pulls away from the binds that come with the name and steps into a new life. Sophomore year she gets a job as a teacher’s assistant, and off-campus housing. She shares the apartment with two other girls, Sally and Rosemary, who strike Andrea as the type to gasp and clutch their rosaries if Andrea did the slightest sinful thing. As far as Andrea was concerned, the men tailing her and her roommates meant no harm. Her father had been taken aback when she told him about her job, her apartment, her classes, but he didn’t voice any objection as he may have before. Something had changed in him, since Michael, untouchable and strange. He treated Andrea differently- better, but knowing that her father, who had always only been proud of her beauty, was pushing her to achieve higher education. On the eve of her twentieth birthday, Steve Rogers showed up at her door, wearing the tight suit and holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Aren’t you married?” Andrea said, her eyes glowering at him over the bouquet of flowers. Steve gave her a tight smile, and looked as if he was waiting for an invitation to come in. Sally, who was cooking dinner in the kitchen, looked over the island, and made a smart sound under her breath. Andrea made no move to let him in.

“They’re not from me. James sends his regards.” The name was like a punch to the gut. Frozen in place, Andrea watched as Steve slowly lowered the bouquet to the doorstep, and retreated. Sally, too curious to stay back, approached, sneaking her head out to watch him descend down the staircase at the end of the hallway.

“He was cute,” She says, pushing Andrea slightly to reach down and grasp the bouquet, “Who’s James? Is he rich?” Andrea snapped back to reality, Sicily still playing in her head. Slamming the door closed, she followed to where Sally was placing the flowers in an empty milk jug. Sally smiles mischievously at her, not noticing Andrea’s pale expression as she leans over to look closer at the flowers.

“Well? Who is he?”

“He’s nobody. Don’t worry about it.”

Andrea couldn’t sleep. It was almost two in the morning, and she was twenty. Sitting at the island in her kitchen, a dull light flickering overhead, she stared at the bouquet of lilies in the milk jug. They taunted her, laughing about how far away she was from figuring out where he was. Suddenly, almost knocking Andrea out of her chair, the phone in the kitchen rings, shrill and loud. She jumps over to answer it, out of breath. As always, she waits before speaking, the line crackling in her ear.

“How’d I know you’d be awake?” The familiar voice was tainted by exhaustion and the familiar crinkle of pain. Lip trembling, Andrea leaned back against the wall, not speaking, just cradling the phone near her ear.

“I thought you were dead.” Bucky laughs breathily over the line. Something shuffles, as if he’s moving. Twisting the wire in her fingers, Andrea waits for a response.

“I can’t stay long.” He says, a train horn blares deep in the distance of the call. He’s outside, and Andrea knows it’s a customary pay phone call. He might not even be in the same state.

“Where are you?”

“I’m not home yet. Just, I wanted to say to wait-” The line drops. And just like that, Bucky Barnes slips through Andrea’s fingers for the second time. She’s crying now, clutching the phone like it burns her skin, shaking. Then, she’s dialing.

“Better be important.”

“Daddy.”

“Sweetheart, it’s almost three in the morning.”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry. I just...I need to know something.” She pushes tears off her cheeks as her father sighs heavily over the line. He’s still in the office, having picked up the phone on the first ring.

“You should visit your Ma more often. She’s lonely.” It’s going to become a truth for a truth. Andrea gulps, and shifts on the wall. The phone is becoming heavy in her hands as she leans her head against the cool wallpaper.

“I’ll be there tomorrow. I just… has Bucky Barnes contacted you?” There is silence over the line, the low hum and a crackle.

“Why?”

“It’s just a question.”

“No, no it’s not. Why do you wanna know about him?” Andrea’s eyebrows furrowed together. She pushes off the wall, and faces the receiver.

“He was my friend. I want to know if he’s okay, and I have a little inkling you might fucking know.”

“Well, he’s fine. Don’t ask again.” Her father hangs up abruptly.

Time moves slowly. Fall fades into a quiet winter, men in uniforms frequenting the streets of New York City less often. Andrea and her roommates go through three packs of cigarettes altogether daily, trying to chase away the bitter cold that comes through the thin windows of their apartment. Buried in classwork, Andrea is more than happy to retreat Barnard early this year, finding her Father’s home in Jersey much more of a comfort with insulation and body heat to match. The house is almost empty when Andrea arrives, only her mother and Lena in the living room. The kids are nowhere to be seen, and on the coffee table, all of the jewelry Andrea spent her childhood admiring lay on the table.

“Playing a game, are we?” The radio in the corner emits a soft Christmas song, as Andrea’s mother rushes over to greet her with a wide smile and open arms. The house is already decorated, garlands over the grand staircase, twinkling lights and Santa figurines in the windows.

“I separated my jewelry for you and Lena. You pick something.” Andrea gives her a weird look, sitting down in her father’s chair, shedding her overcoat and gloves. Lena is eyeing her mother’s engagement ring.

“That’s mine. I called it already. So, Ma, why are you doing this?” Rosalina gives her a tight smile as she pushes her engagement ring into a corner of the table. Along with it, a diamond studded broach that belonged to Donnie’s father. Michael’s cufflinks, and Andrea’s birthstone necklace also meet the pile.

“Don’t you want to keep those?” Andrea says as Rosalina fingers the cufflinks, grimacing in pain. Her mother looks at her, smiling softly.

“I do, this is just for when I am gone.”

“Morbid. What’s the rush?” There’s no answer.

“Mail came for you, baby.” Her mother gestures emptily at the pile of letters by the door, preoccupied by showing Lena a necklace. The letters, three of them, must’ve been sitting here since after Andrea had last been there, her birthday. There’s no name for the return address, just Bucky’s scrambled letters and dirty fingerprints.

“You know who sent them?” Lena asks, bringing Andrea back from her thoughts, she gives her a puzzled look, and Lena retreats back to the jewelry pile. Andrea picks up her suitcase, and runs up the staircase, so fast and quietly that you’d think she was twelve again, playing in the house. Two of the envelopes have sketches, drawings on thick dirty paper, the dates at the top smudged from over a year ago. The last envelope is thick, heavy, and Andrea doesn’t want to open it. Instead, she retreats to her bed, carrying the seven small drawings.

They vary: two are of Andrea, seemingly the same drawing but in different lights. She’s sitting down, one leg hugged to her chest, the other straight out, her dress falling back up her thigh. She’s grinning crookedly, a cigarette in an outstretched hand. At the top, one says “Andrea in Sicily” and the other, “Andrea in my head.” There is no clear difference, other than the background of the two drawings. In the Sicily drawing, behind Andrea are heavy mountains, floating with fluffy clouds and a sun. In the other, there isn’t even a balcony, just black behind her.

She drops the pictures heavily on her bed, falling back to rest her head on a pillow, fingers tracing the words etched at the top of one of the drawings. By the time Andrea comes back downstairs, not daring to open any more letters or drawings, her pile of jewelry has grown larger than the size of a shoe.

It’s early in the morning when there’s a quiet knock on Andrea’s bedroom door. She hears it creak open, heavy footsteps sound on the soft carpet. Donnie drops his briefcase on the side of her bed, causing her to jolt upright, still heavy with sleep.

“Come on, let’s go to the city.”

“What?” Andrea mumbles, rubbing her eyes, taking a closer look at her father. He looks impatient, checking his watch from under his overcoat. He already has his hat on.

“I said, come to the city with me today. Make yourself useful.”

“Don’t you have rookies to do that?” Andrea stands up, shaking off blankets and a shiver. She doesn’t protest her father’s wishes, already sifting through her suitcase.

“Yeah, whatever. I’m coming back in twenty minutes.”

Andrea had only been in her father’s office a few times before, on choice holidays. Now older, it seems the same as it has always been, dark and stuffy. There’s a few choice paintings on the walls, a few family portraits, JJ prominent on the left side of Donnie’s desk. In the alcove, Andrea admires the painting of herself for the first time.

“Sold for over two million U.S. dollars in Rome, you know.” Andrea looks at her father as he shuffles papers on his desk, smiling under her breath. She slides into the velvet chair across from her father, high-heeled foot balancing on the dark wood. Her father lights a cigar, and shoves a file in a drawer.

“So, why am I here?”

“Because it’s Saturday, and I want to spend some quality time with my daughter who's gone off to college. Is that a fucking crime?” Andrea sneers, and lifts up to dramatically look around the room.

“In your office? What, did you drag me along so you can pawn me off on some cousin and tell Ma we had a great time?” Donnie grimaces angrily, pushing out his cigar, and stands from his desk.

“Look, I’m done! Let’s go.”

The day is a good one, to Andrea’s surprise. They retrieve wrapped Christmas presents from high-end stores, peruse Tiffany's for her mother, and end up at a haughty French restaurant for lunch. Andrea’s father doesn’t order anything past two waters.

“So, what’s the catch, Daddy?” Donnie stubs out his cigar, his eyes on a waitress as she brings him the waters.

“This is a business lunch. Your mother hasn’t been feeling well, so I thought I’d bring you, give you a taste of the family business.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, it’s very important. We’re on my turf, he can’t do anything but flirt.”

“Flirt? Who is this guy?” A throat clears behind Andrea, and standing behind her is Thor Odinson. Just recently coming from London to take his father’s place as Don after his passing, of course he would want to meet Donnie. Don Vassalini controlled all of Brooklyn.

“Don Odinson.” Donnie stands, buttoning his jacket as he comes to shake his hand. Andrea moves to stand as well, but Thor motions for her to stay seated.

“Don Vassalini, how are you?” He greets, patting Donnie’s shoulder nicely, before taking a seat beside Andrea, who is struck silent by the sight of him. He’s much taller than his once decrepit father, with short blonde hair and a well-kept beard. His eyes were a bright shade of blue, sparkling in the Christmas lights outside of the restaurant.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” Andrea clears her throat, and offers her hand to his outstretched one, and is once again taken aback when he leans down and kisses her fingers.

“Odinson, this is Andrea, my daughter.” Thor smiles, and looks from Donnie to Andrea twice, “Are you sure?”

The car ride home was silent. Lunch had been busy, filled with business and conversation that almost always turned back to Andrea’s looks. Her lip curled up angrily, she hung a cigarette out the open car window, the cold air biting at her cheeks. Beside her, her father sat quietly.

“You planning on pimping me out?”

“Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Well, are you?”

“Of course not. Jesus. My only daughter thinks I’m going to pimp her out like a whore. You hear this, Johnny?” The driver stays silent. Andrea flicks the cigarette out onto the bridge, and rolls up the window.

“For the sake of all fuck, would you wait until I graduate college before you try to marry me off to him?”

“I don’t see the harm of starting early.”

“He’s thirty-six, daddy!” The conversation ends there.

At the house, Rosalina is working on a lasagna in the kitchen. She doesn’t hear Andrea come in, but she does sense the frown from a mile away.

“Baby, what is it?” She says, dusting her hands on an apron. JJ laughs from the living room, a baby screams.

“How old were you when you married daddy?”

“Twenty-three. Is this about that Thor man?” Andrea guffaws, foot stomping almost indignantly. She comes to stand by her mother, leaning near the pasta boiling on the stovetop.

“You knew about that? He’s almost forty!” Rosalina tsks, and motions her away to check the oven.

“It would be good for you. You’d be rich. You always had very high standards. I blame your father.”

“Mama, that’s not fair. He’ll be dead before our third child is twenty!”

“Oh watch your mouth, your father is almost sixty-three, you want to curse his death?”

“You knew what I meant, Mama. God bless you and daddy and JJ and Lena and-”

“Enough. Go grate the cheese.” Andrea sits down at the table in the corner, grating the parmesan over the bowl. She’s quietly sulking, her mind whirling around the letter from Bucky hidden under her mattress. _When I come back, we can get married._ Rosalina sighs, and walks over to Andrea slowly, her hands coming to rest on Andrea’s shoulders, nose nudging her hair.

“Some day, you have to give up this hopeless schoolgirl fantasy of James. It’s not good for you. You’ll get wrinkles.”

_Andrea,_

_I regret not sending this earlier, but I have my reasons._

_Happy birthday. I keep thinking about when you turned eighteen, and I broke your heart for the first time. You looked so hurt, so betrayed, and I wish beyond belief that I could take it all back, but I can’t. I’m in too deep._

_I’m not the same person I was almost a year and a half ago, now. Andrea, I got caught in grenade damage, and I lost an arm._

_I wrestled with the pain everyday, but if I ever fell asleep, I dreamt of you, your crooked smile and exposed thighs and bright eyes, sitting on the balcony in Sicily._

_I don’t think there is a day that passes where I don’t miss you, your clever exchanges, your undying loyalty and respect you have for the ones you love._

_Y_ _our father doesn’t know about us, and I hope he doesn’t ever find out. When I got out, he immediately stationed me in London, working with Odinson in a few casinos in the area. I’ve been fitted for a prosthetic that I'm afraid of. I don’t know if he’ll ever let me come back._

_These drawings were the only respite in Korea from the horrors I faced. Like I said, I’m not the same man I was before I left. I still love you. I fear I will always love you. It may be too big of a demand, but I will only ask you this once or twice: Wait for me._

_Yours,_

_James_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: one slur, mention of death, murder

Andrea returns to her cold, damp apartment in the city a week after Christmas, before her roommates come back from their own trips. It’s dark, the only light from a small lamp on the side table by the couch. In the fridge, there was no food, just a carton of eggs and spoiled milk someone forgot to throw away. She considered Peggy for lunch, but Peggy had a kid to think about. Gone were the days when they could do whatever they wanted for lunch without worrying about their responsibilities. The phone rang when Andrea slumped her suitcase atop her bed. She huffed, and went back to answer it.  
“Hello?”   
“Is this Andrea? Vassalini?” Andrea rolled her eyes, pulling a stool across the floor and sitting down. It was Thor.   
“How’d you get this number?” She can hear him laugh over the phone. If only she could reach in and strangle him, “I guess that’s a bad question, huh?”   
“I wasn’t going to say anything.” The line crackles as Andrea checks her nails, thinking over the choice words she’s going to give her father when she gets to his office tomorrow. The door creaks open as Thor speaks, and Sally’s head peeks over the island to smile at Andrea. She’s tan, blonder, and dazedly happy. She’d gone back to California, and looked uncomfortable in her overcoat.   
“I was going to ask you to dinner. Do you like Italian food?" There’s a pointed silence which Andrea takes to light a cigarette, and make an exasperated face at Sally, who is sitting at the island now, excited for her to get off the phone.  
“Is that some kind of joke?”   
“Depends on if you thought it was funny.” Andrea exhales smoke, hand starting to feel heavy from holding the phone for just a boring conversation.   
“When?”   
“Tomorrow. Seven-thirty?”   
“Alright. Bye.” Andrea placed the phone back on the receiver and let out a long groan. Was it some kind of truce, the last chess piece being Andrea? Whatever it was, she was going to make it long and difficult for all of them included. 

Andrea didn’t end up at lunch. Instead, she got caught up in her father’s office, listening in on meetings from the couch in the dark corner, nursing a bottle of whiskey between her and JJ. The owner of the bakery who had been making Andrea’s birthday cakes since she was born had just left when JJ finally spoke up.   
“Andrea, take some of my load. Please?” His voice didn’t pose his words as a question as he let the files clung his hand drop onto Andrea’s lap. She curled her lip, opening the top one. A pizza parlor on 65th street.   
“How am I supposed to keep these in check, J? I’m sure you can delegate.” She flung the files lightly at the table, and went back to lighting her cigarette. She couldn’t join the family business and juggle college at the same time. At her apartment, a stack of homework sat waiting for her as she lounged.   
“I know I didn’t raise you to just sit there.”   
“Are you kidding me? For eighteen years that’s all I was used for!”   
“What, are you five? Just help your brother or get out!”   
“Jesus, so touchy. So, what do you expect me to do here? Enchant them with my feminine wiles?”   
“That, or a gun.”   
Andrea sighs, and shoves the files into her bag. She gives JJ a pointed look, “Well, hand it over.”   
“Oh no, little girl, you have guns. Get your own.”   
“I fucking hate this family.”   
“Have fun on your date tomorrow.”   
The door to the office slams as Andrea leaves. 

The man at the pizza parlor didn’t need to be asked when Andrea walked in, her crooked smile and bright eyes enough for the man to consider burning his business down himself. Andrea figured at this rate, it being only four in the afternoon, she’d still have time to catch a late dinner with her brother down at the plaza off fifth. Most of them gave it right up. Laundromats, lawyers, the furniture store. They knew the deal, and Andrea wasn’t about to skimp them out just because the one asking for money had a pretty face. She knew what she was dealing with, and she faced it on her second to last file, the Steakhouse near the office. They had had a fire last winter and were tight on money, turned to Donnie. Usually, they were pretty relenting, but the boss started to get fired up about the treatment some of the guys had been giving him, and JJ had been assigned himself.   
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” The back office was stuffy, smelling of fried meat and cheap red wine. Andrea stared at him, eyes empty of emotion as her palm remained out, waiting for the cut. She could see his assistant trying to count it out in the background as the greaseball of an owner distracted her badly.   
“Vassalini. Is he done yet? I’m kind of busy here.”   
“You marry into that name? It’s a big one.”   
“No, I’m one of a kind. Seriously, how hard is it to count three twenties?”   
The owner grimaced at her, and stepped back to collect the cut from his assistant, his slimy hand sliding it into Andrea’s palm. She turned on her heel, ready to get out of the damp room as fast as possible.   
“You guinea bitches are all the same. Nasty.” 

The steakhouse around three in the morning was different than it was at eight-thirty. A few shaggy men loitered at the bar, the stench of potatoes and steak rose up from their lodged places below the tables and floated in the air like a week old carton of milk. Outside, Andrea waited near the sign of their hours, 3-3. A hand on her gold watch, she watched the minutes tick as the owner inside prepared to kick out the drunken men.   
“Present from a boyfriend?” Steve asked, making his presence known once more from JJ’s side. They had been smoking by the stoop, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, but Andrea had let their cover be blown a long time before that. Inside, a nervous waiter shut the blinds, the drunken men beginning to protest the time.   
“You are so fucking weird, you know that, Rogers? It’s a birthday present from my wife.” JJ says, lip curling at Steve as he pushed his hands up in defeat. Finally, the men left, slinking off down the alley beside the restaurant.   
“Okay, now.” Andrea lit up a cigarette as Steve and JJ beat the waiter to the front door. She smoked quietly, enjoying the peace of the city at night. The crack of a bone and curdling scream was covered up with sounds of muffled groans. A shoe scuffs, a silenced gun goes off. Two minutes later, the back door of the restaurant swings open and shut. Steve is the only one to come back to the front door, out of breath, his hands wiping down his jacket. He motions for Andrea to get into his car, and closes the door behind her.   
“Where is he putting the body?”   
“Don’t worry about it.” The upper east side twinkles in the dark hours, a few lonesome cars passing by as Steve drives carefully. Andrea checks her watch again. It was almost three-thirty.   
“Why’d you ask about the watch?”   
“What was that?”   
“I said the watch. Why’d you ask about the watch?” Steve turns onto the expressway. There are twenty minutes until they reach Andrea’s apartment. She shifts her body, looking at Steve, who is gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white.   
“No reason. It’s a nice watch. Might get Peggy one.”   
“That’s all?”   
“Yes.”   
“Fine, I’ll raise you one more. How do you know James?”   
“James who?”   
“You gonna play stupid the whole ride?  
“I could just ignore you, but that wouldn’t be very nice.” Andrea huffed, and gave up. She’d already asked too much of him tonight, even if he had only just been getting a drink with JJ when the call came.   
“Goodnight, miss.” Steve says as Andrea walks past him, towards the door of her apartment building.   
“Steve.” 

Andrea had figured that she wouldn’t see Steve for a long while after their night together. Distance was what her father had always preached, and she was keen to listen. Until her door creaked open half past noon the next day and Sally shook her awake.   
“The cute guys back. I’d offer him coffee, but he’s acting like he’s already had three cups.” Andrea shook off the covers, her robe tightening around her and she was listening to what Sally was saying with one eye open.   
“Thanks, Sal. Sorry about this.” It was Sunday, her two roommates already having returned from church. Andrea couldn’t remember the last time she went to church, probably when Johnny was born. Steve stood nervously in her living room, and Andrea motioned towards the kitchen before Rosemary nor Sally could make any more uncomfortable small talk.   
“What?” Andrea says once they’re hidden adequately in the kitchen, lighting a cigarette as Steve jiggled his knee against the stool he sat down on.   
“JJ got pinched,” Andrea felt her heart drop, the cigarette smoke puffing out of her mouth with no inhale, “unrelated charges, drunken insubordination.”   
Andrea let out a deep sigh of relief, and leaned up against the counter, hand coming to her heart, trying to slow it to slow down.   
“Thing is, the body is still in his trunk.” Needless to say, Andrea doubted that she would make her date on time, or at all. 

“Jesus, I can’t tell which smells worse- this bar, or the body.” Steve and Andrea were seated in a run-down, dark bar on the outskirts of south Philly. It was almost midnight, both of them dirty and tired. Steve couldn’t enlist any help digging and burying the body because he was on probation after a mishap during a routine check-in with Odinson men. He hadn’t started it, but he had finished it. So Andrea had to go in to her father, tell him the date was off, and that she was the only one involved in the whack other than JJ, who had gotten out of holding at seven in the evening.   
“What the hell happened, anyway?”   
“Daddy, I went in there, they counted three twenties five times, and tried to distract me from seeing the truth. They were broke, safe empty, his assets were melted. If anything, I did him a favor. If your business is dying, you don’t insult the person who could bury you under seven feet of dirt.”   
Two beers were placed in front of them, which were happily gulped down in a matter of minutes. Steve cleared his throat.   
“How come you were so calm?” He said, almost worried to speak out of turn. Andrea thought of the body, the hole, the change of dress she had brought, the shovels. She didn’t know why she was so calm. It seemed that the rage from the insult and disrespect towards her filled the holes of fear, nausea, disgust. She shrugged, turning her glass around in her hand, cigarette slowly burning down in her opposite.   
“That’s how I was raised, I suppose. Don’t ask questions, don’t freak, just do what you need to do and get the hell out of there.” More than that, she was almost relieved to have a reason to call off the date.   
“I’m sorry if this may seem rude, but I had no idea that women could..”   
“Yeah, me neither. A lot of things changed when Michael died. It’s me or the incompetent cousins who can’t tell their right from their left. Sorry.” Steve stifled his laughter, motioned for two more beers from the bartender. Andrea shuffled in her stool, heels caught on the bottom rings.   
“Shouldn’t you be at home? I’m sure Peggy is waiting.”   
“I told her I would be late. Besides, her mother is staying with us while Marie is still projectile vomiting on everything.” Steve says, a dazed smile on his face, dimples meeting the swipe of dirt on his cheek. Retrieving his wallet, he pulled out a wrinkled photo of Peggy, holding their daughter so they were cheek to cheek. The back of the photo reads “Peg and Marie, Christmas 1952.”   
“She’s cute.” Andrea mumbles, giving Steve back the picture and nursing her second beer. The night was catching up to her, the dried blood in the trunk, the piles of dirt surrounding the body, her fathers almost satisfied look when she told him what they had done. The bartender placed a phone in front of her before either of them could say anything, offering her the phone.   
“Hello?”   
“It’s me. Did you guys finish it?”   
“Yes. Don’t tell daddy Steve had anything to do with it.”   
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” A small whimper sounded over the phone, a sniffle. It was Johnny. Andrea grimaced, remembering that his birthday was in a week.   
“You know, it’s frowned upon to wake your kid up at half past midnight.”   
“He’s sick. I gotta go.” the line clicked before Andrea could reply. She sighed, and pushed her drink closer to her.   
“JJ’s fine.” Steve just nodded, and downcast his eyes at his drink. His wallet sat on the counter, open to a row of pictures.   
“I was in the same squadron as James in Korea,” Steve slid his wallet over towards Andrea, a faded picture of men in uniforms showing. She could pick out Steve, Bucky, and Thor’s brother, Loki, who had been MIA for over six months. Beside Loki, a young looking boy, with a bright smile, an arm hanging over Bucky’s shoulder. On the other side of Steve was a black man, attractive, his helmet loose on his head, a smile on his face.   
“Is that Loki? Odinson?” Andrea asked absentmindedly, her eyes tracing over Bucky still, from his empty smile, his dog tags, the picture pinned to his helmet, the gun hanging off his shoulder.   
“Yeah. We lost him after getting caught in a grenade explosion outside Seoul. I don’t think he’s dead, because we found Peter’s dog tags, but not his.” Steve pointed out the young looking man near Bucky. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and Steve was implying that he was dead.   
“Is that when… when Bucky..” Steve cleared his throat, and nodded. Andrea swallowed loud, and slid the wallet back over to Steve.   
“You’re still in contact with him?” Steve nods again.   
“I just need a phone number. That’s all.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: gore, death, war, Bucky being sad

Bucky hated war. He detested it his entire life. He hated his father’s nightmares and black-out curtains. He was young, so young when his brother never came back. Then, the same day he received the tear-stained letter from his mother in Sicily, he found out that Michael would never come back either.  
Michael’s family put him through trade school. They exchanged favors for his job at the auto-parts store. When unsure, Donnie would just pat his hand, and tell him, “don’t worry about it.”  
Donnie’s study at his home was always cold and dark. There was no difference when Bucky sat down in front of him on November tenth, 1951. Donnie was leaning back in his chair, almost unengaged, his tie looser around his neck than it would’ve been any other day. A cigar smolders on the ashtray as JJ eyes Bucky from the couch in the corner. The dog pants, a large head resting on Bucky’s knee.  
“I can’t get you out of Korea.”  
“I know. That’s not why I’m here.” If Michael had been there, having successfully dodged his own draft, it would’ve been entirely why he was there. Now, he was more worried about his future, his dues, his mother.  
“You’ve always been like a son to me, James. Speak up.” The words were empty, and did nothing to calm Bucky’s nerves. He pushed his hands together, trying to warm them in the dim office.  
“I want to be useful.” Andrea flashes behind his eyes, her head tilted up at him, the fabric of her dress between his fingers. 

“James Barnes, do you know what year it is?” Bucky opens his eyes slowly, trying to configure the shadows dancing behind his eyelids. There’s a dull ache where his arm used to be. Blindly, Bucky grasps his dog tags with his hand, feeling the cool metal between his fingers, and opens his eyes.  
“Where am I?”  
“A hospital outside of London. Do you know what year it is?” Still blurry, Bucky makes out three doctors in white coats, holding clipboards, standing beside his bed. When he shifted, he saw JJ, dull-eyed and bored, staring at him from the chair in the corner.  
“1952.”  
“Can you move your fingers for me?” Still out of it, Bucky blinks rapidly and moves his fingers, still clutched to his dog tags. The doctors exchange looks, scribbling on their clipboards.  
“Your other fingers, Mr. Barnes.”  
“Well, you’re gonna have to go find them in Korea, then.”  
A doctor cleared his throat, and pointed at the left side of Bucky’s bedside. When he looked over, in place of his flesh left arm, which he had lost so bloodily in Korea, only mere months ago, was a metal arm, cold upon touch, gleaning back up at him. 

“You know, I’m almost out of here.” Steve says, spoon clinking on the side of his soup bowl. “Got two more weeks. Then I’m home.”  
The fire was dying out, the shade of the trees above them cracking the fire to a dim glow. Bucky could see the faint lights of the small town just outside the perimeter, he could make out the distant laughs of children. Peter, the youngest in their squadron, trudged through the uncut brush to make his way back to the campfire.  
“What about you, Barnes?” Sam says, absentmindedly swishing a handful of water around his empty bowl.  
Bucky had only been there for five months. He was thrust into this squadron, stationed in South Korea, right outside of Seoul. he fit right in, like a puzzle piece, which Peter used to describe him. Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, Loki Odinson, and James Barnes.  
“I just got here. I doubt they’re gonna let me out so soon.” Steve chuckled, shining a dim light towards Peter’s general vicinity. Loki patrolled, waiting impatiently for his turn to eat.  
“How long?”  
“Five months.”  
“Shit, man. You got a dame at home?” Peter had found his way back, sinking onto the ground beside Bucky as Sam and Steve made to stand. From the inside pocket of his heavy coat, he pulled a torn picture of Andrea. It was from Sicily, taken out by the lake. Steve shined a flashlight over it as all of them huddled over to look. Nobody spoke for a moment, and Bucky shoved it back in his pocket. Peter, Sam, Loki looked away, unphased by the picture, tired.  
“Who did you say you were again?” Steve said, standing menacingly by Sam, who was preparing for patrol.  
“C’mon Steve. You know her or something?”  
“Yeah. Yeah I actually do.” Loki’s spoon stopped moving his soup, yet none of them turned to Steve and Bucky.  
“How?”  
“She’s the boss’ kid.”  
“But-”  
“Shut up.” Peter was standing again, both of his hands up to signal silence. Alert, they all heard it. The ticking. The air thick with panic, they all scrambled to get up, not knowing which direction it was coming from, they all ran different ways.  
The blast erupted to the ground, uprooting trees and Peter. Smoke billowed around Bucky, who was pushed back abruptly, face burning from impact, a ripping, all-consuming pain surrounded him. He couldn’t get up. He could feel the liquid pooling by his shoulder, the dirt under his right hand as he tried to push upwards. Peter was so close, he could feel the remains on his uniform, splaying his boots. He just needed his dog tags-  
“Buck, Bucky! Holy shit!” It was Sam, pulling him up by the right arm, heaving him up and away. Gunshots sounded in the distance, as Bucky’s back met the cool bark of a tree. Steve was there, eyes wide as he shuffled through his pack, producing cloth.  
“Where’s Peter? Did you get Peter?” A shot rang out near Bucky’s left ear. When he turned slowly, he could see Sam behind a nearby tree, shooting. When he looked down, he saw what exactly Steve was wrapping in cloth. His shoulder blade, unaccompanied by an arm, seeped blood down onto the ground, bleeding through all of the bandages Steve piled on.  
“Let’s hope backup is coming, huh, or else I’m gonna die.” Bucky smiled dazedly, shock numbing his body entirely as Steve squeezed the wound, undoing his belt for a tourniquet.  
“Don’t say shit like that, Buck. You’re gonna live!” Steve screamed, trying to be heard over the gunshots.  
Two weeks passed before Steve, Sam and Bucky were honorably discharged and sent home. A helicopter made it three hours after the surprise attack, when Bucky was nearing death from blood loss. They never found Peter’s body, or Loki. Bucky woke up two days later, eyes tired under the fluorescent lights of the army hospital. Sam and Steve were playing cards on the empty bed beside his. On the table, a stack of letters tied together, and the picture of Andrea, covered in blood. Two pairs of dog tags beside the picture. Bucky tried to reach and grab them, his phantom hand meeting nothing but cold air. 

Bucky hated the metal arm. He hated how it crushed eggs when gently squeezed, squirted toothpaste onto the bathroom mirror, dropped milk cartons onto the floor and ruined every shirt he owned. It had been two months, and nothing seemed to get better.  
His flat in London gave him leeway to work as strength for multiple casinos in the area. He ran whacks on people who couldn’t, or wouldn’t pay up. Escorted belligerent drunks home, and asked, or demanded, money from the businesses nearby.  
He had just gotten off a ten hour shift at a poker game downtown when there was a knock at the door. It was almost seven in the morning, the sun shining through his blinds towards the slanted floor. At the door, it was a woman, red-haired and wearing close to a nurse uniform. She was smiling, clutching a large bag in her hand.  
“Housekeeping. Regards from the boss.” Bucky squinted at her, trying to wipe the exhaustion from his eyes. His apartment was a mess. Empty beer bottles on the table, spilt milk on the kitchen floor, eggs splattered on the walls after long hours of agitation with his arm.  
“What’s your name?” Bucky says, not moving from the doorway, meeting her faint agitation with suspicion. He hadn’t gotten a letter from Donnie since the hospital. It was almost April.  
“Natasha. Romanov. Can I come in?” Her Russian accent bit at her tongue, and Bucky slammed the door in her face before she could slither past him. 

Bucky dreamt of Andrea often during those silent moments he had, as summer rolled around, clearing London skies for a short while. He hadn’t received a letter from her in over six months. Steve sent pictures of his baby, promising him that Bucky would be back soon. Just let Steve smooth it over with the boss. They’d get a younger kid in London. They were facing a change in power with the Odinson's.  
Natasha came back, this time with written approval from Donnie. She came once a week, picked up after Bucky like he was a stray cat in the alleyway as he slept out his depression. Occasionally, she helped him take off the metal arm, smoothing lotion over his taut skin, helping him through the aching.  
“Who is this?” Natasha says, picking up her shirt from the floor of his bedroom, leaning over the cleaned off picture of Andrea. Bucky sat up from his spot on the bed, sheets pooling over his bare thighs.  
“Don’t touch that.” Natasha raised an eyebrow, and shifted up her skirt. She was gone within two minutes, and didn’t come back until the next week, never helping him with his arm again.  
Fall came, distracting Bucky with rain and a full schedule. Letters from Steve became few and far between. Thor had just left London for New York to bury an empty casket for his brother. Before he had left, he had shown up at Bucky’s door, at midnight. They shared a beer, sitting on opposite sides of the couch. If Bucky was afraid of dying, he wouldn’t have let him in.  
“You knew him.”  
“Loki, yeah. He was a good man.” Thor chuckles deeply, beer barely missing his lips as he took another sip. He wasn’t wearing a tie, his shirt unbuttoned enough to show the gold chain hanging around his neck.  
“No, he wasn’t. Terrible, terrible man. The fucking worst.” The tall man gets up and leaves the flat with his beer still in hand. 

By the time the calendar said November, Bucky had drafted over ten letters to Andrea, never sending them. On November eighth, after a particularly rough night down at the casino, Bucky nursed a black eye as he dialed up New York, New York, Steve Rogers.  
“Hello?”  
“Steve, it’s me, Bucky.” A baby cried in the background.  
“Hey, Buck. What’s up?”  
“I need to call in a favor.” 

Andrea answered the phone with the same breathy sigh that Bucky missed. He was standing in a phone box over five miles away from his apartment building. Midday, he had no idea what time it was in New York. Worried that his phones were tapped, he didn’t want anybody finding out he was in contact with the one woman he could die for loving.  
“...For me.” The line drops. Thumping his head against the dial, Bucky let the phone drop, springing back from the wire. She had sounded tired, breathy, soft, he could almost taste the sweet wine from her lips in Sicily, the cigarette smoke dancing around his nose as she leaned in for another kiss on the balcony. He had been astounded by how much he loved her, all of her. When he had to go to Korea, his heart almost broke into two. His mother had patted his cheek softly when he told her.  
“Honey, you are twenty years old. Think for a few years.” It was always that: you’re too young, you don’t really love her, who knows how you’ll feel in five years at the most. But Bucky knew, no matter how old he’ll get or mature he becomes, he’d always love Andrea. He loved her outside of Seoul. When he was bleeding out behind that tree he subconsciously drifted off with Andrea, in the water, kissing her for the first time. When he was with Natasha, pressing his body to hers, he wished it was Andrea.  
It had been over a year since he left, watching as the train sped away, leaving Andrea alone on the train station with his mother. Two birthdays without him, three birthdays since she’d turned eighteen, when Bucky gave her the butterfly necklace. 

The only kind of Christmas card that Bucky received this year was from Steve, a picture of him and his wife, Steve holding his toddler. On the back, “Merry Christmas, Bucky.” Stuck to the envelope, is another picture. Bucky’s heart stops when he lifts it up: it’s Andrea, smiling between two toddlers, who are being held up by hands. He recognizes Johnny- JJ’s boy, and the other baby he presumed was Marie. “Baby with the babies- 1952.”  
She doesn’t look any different- more mature, no more fluffy dresses that puff around her waist and lay out. Her hair is styled differently, but it’s Andrea, nonetheless. He pressed it under a tack on the wall next to his bed, next to the numerous drawings and pictures of her.  
It was a few weeks of more work and moping before the phone rang. Bucky had just barely walked in when he heard it ringing, dried blood on his hands as he picked it up.  
“Hello.”  
“Bucky? It’s me.”  
“Andy, how’d you get this number?”  
“Steve isn’t a very good liar.” There’s a gulping noise, and a sigh. She’s drunk. Upon a look at his watch, he realizes it’s almost four in the morning in New York.  
“I tried to call you before, but your roommates kept picking up.” Natasha came into the kitchen, clutching a trash bag in her hand, she gave him a look as he motioned for her to get out.  
“A woman answered the phone before. I called twenty minutes ago.”  
“My housekeeper. Sorry, I just got home.”  
“Where are you?” Bucky was considering a drink himself. Andrea was as steady and demanding as she was two years ago. It was like music to his ears.  
“I told you in my letter, I’m in London.” There’s a moment of silence, Bucky can only presume as she fixes herself another drink. She sighs shakily, and he realizes she’s crying.  
“When are you coming back? Are you ever going to come back to me?”  
“Honey, there’s nothing I want more than to come back to you. I’m not allowed. I’m of more use to your father here than I am in New York.”  
“Do you still love me?” She’d asked it before. In her letters, in Sicily.  
“I love you.” The line went dead, just the dial tone in its wake.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I'm changing it up a little this archetype is very curious to me so I wanted to see if I could shape it as I want. More tags and explanation are to come.  
> Zia- aunt  
> I don't speak Italian so there's not gonna be much Italian LOL


End file.
